


it filters in and fills the room

by Honeymull



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Fluff, M/M, alternating povs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-23
Updated: 2015-09-23
Packaged: 2018-04-23 00:11:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,418
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4855868
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Honeymull/pseuds/Honeymull
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lazy, quiet portraits of two idiots pretty content with each other.</p>
            </blockquote>





	it filters in and fills the room

**Author's Note:**

  * For [cathybites](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cathybites/gifts).



> I'm on a posting-old-fic kick, what can I say. Originally posted to LJ around...2008, 2009. Meh, somewhere in there.

It's icy outside when they shuffle out into the moonlight after the game. It slicks the street, sticks in the air and runs in chills down their sweat-streaked necks. Nicky shivers, pulls his coat tighter around himself. 

He watches, amused, as Brandon huffles out, grimacing at the biting cold and poppings his collar high. Dan smirks at that, and Nicky rolls his eyes, knowing how Brandon and Dan can get if they start sniping at each other. But Brandon doesn't rise to the bait for once, seems to settle for flipping Dan off as the team trudge their various ways.

Nicky falls in step with him a few minutes later. Bumps his shoulder tiredly and mumbles something about sleeping for a week. Brandon grins, and Nicky knows he feels the same ache in his cheeks (neck biceps hands abs thighs) at it as the ache suffusing Nicky's body in a dull throb, too. They stop by Brandon's car, and Nicky leans against the smooth metal as the locks beep open. He looks up at Brandon and Brandon rolls his eyes. Opens the door for him with a muttered "Princess" and Nicky slides gratefully into the seat. In the short amount of time he has while Brandon is still walking around to the driver's door, Nicky cranks the a/c as high as it'll go, angling the slots carefully. Then he relaxes, knocks his head back into the armrest and curls up on himself as much as he can, getting comfortable.

He blinks at Brandon when the driver's door opens, innocent, then lets his lips curl up just a bit, amused, when Brandon twists the keys in the ignition and gets a face-full of cold air from the a/c vents. He huddles down into the warmth of his thick scarf and listens, sleepy and content, as Brandon swears at him for the rest of the drive to the hotel.

Brandon walks closer to him than normal through the hotel hallways, plush carpet silent under their feet and giving nothing away.

When Nicky swipes his key and pushes his door open, Brandon's right behind him. He crowds him close like Nicky hates/loves, wants to flinch away and absorb him, both, and he always falls this side of the line. This side: weary, listing kisses, slack lips and warm tongues, sore muscles protesting every inch of movement.

They make it to the bed, to the soft pillows and down comforter, still unmade from the night before, and sleep overtakes them.  


* 

  


Brandon wakes up the next morning to sunlight trying to burn his eyes from his skull. He stumbles out of bed to close the fucking curtains, one eye screwed shut (he's learned with bruises how unwise it is to try to keep both eyes shut in this particular venture) and his entire body aching with each step. He fumbles the (stupid fucking) curtains shut with a groan, turns around and hears an answering rumble from the bed. Nicky's hair is sticking up in about a thousand different directions, there are lines from the linen pillowcase indented on his cheek, his bleary eye-blinking reminiscent of a sloth he's seen at the zoo one time, and Brandon wants to stab himself with something when he catches himself thinking he's never seen anything better in his life.

He settles for smacking a palm into his eye socket and going to take a shower.

Halfway through washing his hair, the curtain ripples and Nicky shoulders in next to him. He glares until Brandon shifts to let him under the spray. For a while, they just stand and let the hot water soothe sore muscles, then Brandon ducks his head under, rinses his hair, and climbs out. He gets a glare for leaving, too. Nicky's always angry in the morning.

Angry and weirdly tactile, as evidenced by the damp elbow shoved into his ribs as he reaches into a high cabinet for cereal. His hoodie absorbs most of the blow, but he plays it up, breath whooshing from his lungs with a heartfelt "Motherfucker." He twists as Nicky makes a grab for the cereal box, hunches over it possessively as Nicky cuffs him upside the head, giving up.

Brandon narrows his eyes at him in triumph across the table as he pours his rightfully-won Cheerios into the shitty tupperware containers they use for everything food-related. Nicky just raises an eyebrow over the mug of cold coffee he's sipping and doesn't say a word. Nothing new there.

Brandon doesn't mind, really. Break out the videogames, GTA and Halo, and Nicky doesn't shut up; start an idle argument over fighting regulations and Nicky won't hesitate to speak his mind.

And, of course, there's this.

When Brandon backs him against the counter, sliding his tongue along the line of his jaw, stubble prickling at his lips, Nicky says just as much as Brandon could ever want, with lazy-morning coffee kisses and frantic hands, pressing meaning into Brandon's skin with graceful fingers and warm breath.

He says it with gasps when Brandon goes to his knees, when he fists one hand in Brandon's hair and grabs at the edge of the counter with the other.

He says it with his appreciative _"Fuck_ ", afterwards, eyes gleaming as he wrangles Brandon back up to his feet and slides his hand down.

Brandon shudders it out, slumps against Nicky until he's shoved off, albeit gently, told to finish his stupid cheerios before they rot.

He finishes his stupid cheerios, scrunching his nose in surprise at the lingering taste of jizz flavoring them for the first several bites. Nicky covers his laugh with a cough into his coffee, just holds up a hand, waggling his fingers meaningfully. Brandon's pretty much too blissed out to care.

They go down to lunch with the rest of the team, arrive to Scotty bitching about Orr stealing the last of the jelly donuts (Orr beams unrepentantly at him through a mouthful of jelly and dough) and go over the game once everyone is there. Clean win, last night, the kind they'd been struggling to make for a while now, and they worked their asses off for this one. They deserved it. They'll make it happen again.  


* 

  


Nicky fucks off to his own room for the afternoon, lets Brandon concentrate on his own performance on last night's tape, watching it over and over again on his laptop. Nicky hears the two separate game tapes nearly sync up sometimes.

He's finished studying the game an hour before Nicky is, before he comes in. He's sacked out on the couch absently playing Madden by then, and Nicky turns up a deeply scornful lip before dropping down beside him. He picks up a controller anyway, kicks Brandon's feet off the low coffeetable, then proceeds kicks his _ass_ at videogame football. He smirks, smug as hell, until Brandon swears, tosses his controller down in disgust, then plucks the controller out of Nicky's hands and throws it across the room. Nicky barely suppresses a snort, raising his voice to goad, "Bad loser!" as Brandon stomps into the tiny kitchen suite.

He hears Brandon slamming cupboards and opening the fridge, occasionally cursing. Nicky groans, stretches out like a big cat, then gets up to go make sure Brandon isn't trying to do something stupid, like cook. 

Brandon's standing near the fridge eating a rolled up piece of bologna. He glares at Nicky. 

"You want a sandwich?" Nicky says instead of responding in kind. He nods to the open bologna packet, keeping his expression open and mild.

"...Yeah," Brandon says after a moment of holding out, and Nicky smiles, goes to get the bread.

He's just finishing up the sandwiches, one for him and one for Brandon, when Brandon shuffles up. He hooks his chin over Nicky's shoulder. 

"Dijon mustard?" he asks hopefully.

Nicky cut both sandwiches diagonally, feels almost foolishly like his mom, and says, "Yes. I know," and hands Brandon his portion. 

Brandon accepts it, and Nicky rolls his eyes. Easiest way to resolve problems: food.  


* 

  


Later that evening, he makes it up to him again. He keeps his touch light, slow hands and hot fingers tracing chills over hipbones, lazy kisses sucking at soft skin, and it's near-pavlovian by now, falling asleep and waking to Brandon's stupid alarm clock going off at increasingly louder decibels.

It's completely obnoxious, completely _Brandon_ , and he doesn't even try to stop it when his lips tilt up in a sleepy morning smile at the ceiling.  


  



End file.
